


catalyst

by creepbat



Category: Actor RPF, Australian Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Club Sex, Exhibitionism, Jealous Chris, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Public Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:21:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creepbat/pseuds/creepbat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What were you hoping to accomplish,” Chris murmurs under his breath so only Tom can hear. “...<br/>By flirting with someone right in front of me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	catalyst

”Can I buy you a drink?”

The question is perfectly harmless, Tom assures himself. Then why does he hestitate? He’s allowed to flirt, to accept a drink or two from attractive strangers at a bar. It’s not like he and Hemsworth are even remotely exclusive. His co-star had made it more than clear that he has a real life outside of Tom, his public life. Tom’s thirty-one, anyway; too old to get tangled up in something like that-- he should be focusing on finding someone and settling down. The main cast had come to the upscale nightclub after the New York Avengers premiere, and after hours of him signing Loki posters and taking pictures with jittery fangirls, he deserves to blow off a little steam. And the man is attractive. He had recognized Tom from _Thor_. Tom usually doesn’t mind fans of his work approaching him, and in this case it is especially welcome.

In the midst of their pleasant chat, Tom by chance glances to his right, and his heart stops momentarily. He tries to ignore it, turning back to the now one-sided conversation and nodding politely at everything the man is saying, despite the fact that he is no longer capable of paying any attention. He can’t shake the sight of Hemsworth’s intense, almost infuriated gaze focused unnvervingly on him-- those icy blue eyes sharpening in his direction, practically narrowed into slits.

It catches him off-guard only minutes later when a strong hand clasps his forearm, thick fingers curling around it possessively. “Excuse us,” Chris says bluntly to the confused man who only watches speechlessly Chris pulls the other actor away.

“Is something wrong?” Tom asks coolly, trying not to show his irritation.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Chris is seething and the furious tone raises the little hairs on the back of Tom’s neck.

“Having a simple conversation,” he replies rather aloofly under his breath, trying and failing to twist out of Chris’s hold and only succeeding in turning his back to him. “And I honestly don’t see why you would care.” The club is completely packed and it’s hard to move anywhere. He stiffens, feeling the unmistakable hardness of Chris’s erection prodding lewdly at his backside. “You’re drunk,” he states in what he hopes is a level voice, trying not to wince as the other man tightens the bruising grip on his wrist. It’s the pot calling the kettle black. After three drinks Tom is finding himself embarrassingly unsteady on his feet, and even though he resents Chris restraining him like this, at the risk of causing a scene, it is pretty much the only thing keeping him grounded.

“What were you hoping to accomplish,” Chris murmurs under his breath so only Tom can hear. “... By flirting with someone right in front of me?”

Tom doesn’t have the slightest clue where Chris is dragging him off to, they go up the stairs to the second floor, where it is almost as crowded, but darker and smoky. He throws Chris a questioning look and follows his gaze to an isolated alcove in the far corner that Tom hadn’t noticed being there before. There’s a black curtain hanging in front of it, and he assumed that it was some kind of place to store equipment for the DJ downstairs. If two people were to go in there, they would be completely hidden, unless of course, someone happened to walk in also. Realization hits him like a truck and he swallows convulsively.

_No._

He’s about to voice this when Chris’s mouth crashes against his, tongue prying between his lips and their teeth clacking together. His brain is muddled and hazy from drinking and Chris leads him in behind the curtain easily. People are walking by, oblivious and uncaring as to what’s happening in this little secluded, shut off area.

After they take over the space behind the high stacks of boxes, Tom is already overheated and takes off his black leather jacket and hurriedly undos his trousers, letting them pool around his ankles. Chris wastes no time in having him bent prone over the sturdy shelf that’s against the wall, and the loud bass from the music sends vibrations against Tom’s stomach. Calloused hands are kneading the globes of his buttocks, spreading him obscenely open. He doesn’t have time to stifle the surprised gasp that escapes him as cold liquid is suddenly running between his cheeks where it drips out from between his legs and into a small puddle on the floor. Heat rises in his face when he realizes that Chris has emptied the remainder of his drink onto him. It hurts what semblance of personal indignation and pride he has left. What is he doing here? There’s no future in this. It isn’t right, how Chris treats him during these shameful little trysts-- so degradingly, like something inconsequential, and his cock twitches at the thought.

He doesn’t get the chance to turn this over more, tensing instinctively when he feels a very warm, insistent pressure on his anus, swirling and pushing relentlessly against the furled flesh, but not actually breaching him. His heart is racing dangerously at having this done to him in such an extremely public place, knowing that if anyone for any reason decided to come in here, nothing would stop them from being totally exposed. He cannot believe that Chris is taking up so much time to do this. The other actor must be taking pleasure in seeing him writhing helplessly on his stomach, teasing the Brit, sucking the alcohol glistening there on his pucker and trailing a finger possessively along the vulnerable place of his perineum. Tom’s growing erection is uncomfortably coming into contact with the edge of the surface his top-half is lying on and he hisses through gritted teeth: 

“Just do it already.”

Chris, the arrogant bastard, only laughs and the hot breath on his now slick entrance makes Tom shiver, raising goosebumps on his skin.

“Impatient, aren’t we…”

Tom’s body jerks when the tongue finally pushes in, entering through the tight guardian ring of muscle and his breath hitches as he buries his face in his arms to hide it. His hips squirm involuntarily while he tries to get used to the foreign sensation of Chris’s tongue moving around inside of him. It’s far too hot and a groan tears from his throat as it continues to press deeper and wiggle around further, the small and surrendering sound completely lost and drowned out in the raucous noise of the club.

The taller man pulls out a small tube of something from his pocket; lube. Because Chris doesn’t _really_ want to hurt him, Tom tells himself. He takes it as evidence that yes, Hemsworth can be an ass but ultimately he still cares about his well-being, at least somewhat. And he reminds himself, without wanting to, that it is all he can hope to ask for.

Tom takes the mild discomfort of the first finger easily, but he braces himself and grips the edges of the ledge harder for the second. It burns this time, even with the added lubrication, but he forces himself to work through it, pushing his ass back to accept them in further. “Take it,” Chris grunts, twisting and curling the digits carelessly, pressing against Tom’s inner walls with his nails. “You want it. You like fucking yourself on my fingers.” And no matter how hard he wants to deny it to himself, Tom knows he’s right. And then he remembers why-- that slight brush up against the little bundle of nerves nestled deep inside him, and his back arches of its own accord. He can practically see the smug smirk on Chris’s face. The other man knows his body even better than he does.

Chris lines the head of his throbbing member up against his shut hole and the force of the initial thrust knocks the air from of Tom’s lungs. It doesn’t make sense, really. They’d done it enough times already to the point where it shouldn’t this uncomfortable anymore. Still, it always aches. But he’s become used to it now-- has grown to want it, need it even.

“So fucking tight, Tom,” the bigger man growls, punishing him with shallow, harsh thrusts.

A swishing sound. It’s minute and he almost doesn’t hear it, but he’s sure of it. Someone else has entered the room.

Tom goes rigid and his eyes widen, his insides seizing as pure terror takes over his system. Every muscle in his body must have clenched up because Chris lets out a strangled moan in his ear. It’s a man, most likely an employee, bent down on his knees and sifting through some nearby boxes. The two are completley still and Tom doesn’t even _breathe_ , praying that the man doesn’t decide to check over in their direction and happen to peek behind the stacks that are barely blocking them from view.

But then Chris starts fucking him again in deliberate, torturous strokes and blood rushes to Tom’s face in shock and anger. He’s half naked and bent over with another person _three feet away_. He can’t even try to put a stop to this because Chris is holding his hips firmly in place, pinning his body on the ledge. If he tries to struggle or make any sound they will get noticed for sure, the man is this close. Every thrust is hitting him squarely in the prostate and he has to bite his arm to keep quiet, a scream building in the back of his throat. At one point the pleasure shoots straight up his spine and as he’s about to yell, one of Chris’s hands covers his mouth in a bruising grip, fingernails digging into his cheeks. Tom’s entire body slumps visibly when the man finally walks out and he deliriously lets his face rest in Chris’s palm, his abdomen fluttering both from the stunted way he’s breathing and from taking something so huge inside him.

“What? You don’t want anyone to see?” Chris grunts, his voice fierce in Tom’s ear so he can hear over the music. “To have some stranger watch your ass getting fucked on my cock?” Tom doesn’t give a coherent response, only groans and throws himself back harder.

He feels the short sleeve of his v-neck being pushed up and cries out as Chris sinks his teeth into the meat of one of his freckled shoulders, timing it with a sharp thrust against that spot inside of him. The combination of pain and ecstasy is what has him crashing over the edge and he comes shamelessly, Chris biting down harder and moaning as the inner muscles of Tom’s channel clamp down rhythmically on his dick.

Tom is motionless once it’s over, barely even flinching when Chris pulls out of him. His head is prickling with the beginnings of a headache and his shoulder stings- the sane part of him, that has been largely absent this night up until now, worries that it’ll get infected. Right now he wants nothing more than to climb into his starchy hotel bed and forget that he ever allowed this to happen again. He goes to rise but then there’s a big hand on his chest, firmly pushing him on his back. Chris’s brow is covered in perspiration and his eyes are bearing resolutely into his.

“I’m not finished.”

“No! S-stop…” he protests breathlessly and attempts to jerk away as much as he can despite being so utterly drained of energy. Chris tugs Tom’s jeans off his ankles and sets his long legs on those broad, muscled shoulders. His body is still tight and over-sensitized from his orgasm and when the head of Chris’s dick begins pushing into his hole again, it’s too much stimulation. “No, I can’t, Chris, no.”

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Chris mutters, his voice ragged and strained. His blond bangs are tickling Tom’s nose. “You can take it, I know you can.”

The back of Tom’s head slams against the surface he’s lying on, the tendons in his neck cording at the raw, unbearable fullness of being impaled again. He makes a broken, wilting sound as Chris stills to give him a chance to adjust. It’s a rare thing for him to do, and Tom barely registers those big fingers touching the side of his contorted face, probably meant as a gesture of comfort. To Tom’s surprise and dismay, it doesn’t take long for him to get hard again. In fact, just as he is approaching the brink of climax, Chris cruelly pulls almost all the way out of him, making him let out an undignified cry of frustration. Chris is doing this on purpose, pounding into him rapidly but switching to an agonizingly slow pace whenever he senses that he’s is getting close. Tom is a mess now, his head lolling back and forth, curly hair drenched in sweat and sticking to his forehead as he gasps for air. Desperately, he grasps for his own member, just for some kind of friction, anything to help him reach release, but Chris takes his thin wrists and holds them down on the surface of the ledge, using them as leverage. A song comes on that Tom likes; a contemporary R&B single. He knows that he won’t ever be able to listen to it the same way again, that whenever he hears it from now on all he will be able to think of is this night- the unyeilding pressure on his wrists, the flashing lights from the dancefloor below casting faint shadows across Chris’s concentrated features, getting nailed in the prescence of dozens of unwitting people in a dark alcohol-soaked corner by someone who will never come close to needing him the way he wants to be needed.

“I… hate you,” he chokes out in between thrusts. He’s almost positive that Hemsworth shouldn’t be able to hear him over the blaring bass of the music and the partying noise from their fellow club-goers, but the thrusts get noticeably harsher and deeper and Chris’s breathing more labored. Tom imagines how whorish and degraded he must look, moaning with his ankles next to his ears now, his body practically bent in half and his abused opening stretched wide around his co-star. If a person actually sees what they are doing this time, Tom wouldn’t even care. He can’t think about anything else now other than the Australian’s thick cock driving in and out of him.

“Please, Chris, PLEASE,” Tom begs without a shred of dignity. He physically can’t take this any longer.

“Who do you belong to?” snarls Chris, his teeth bared and an almost mad look in his eyes. “Who fucking owns you?” Tom will regret this, but at this moment he can’t even think about saying anything else other than one thing.

“ _You_.”

This is what sets Chris off, a deep low growl eminating from him as every erratic piston of hips is now directly pounding Tom’s prostate dead center. The Brit’s eyes squeeze shut as an excruciatingly long-overdue white hot mix of pain and pleasure explodes inside him.

“Ungh, ungh, CHRIS!” he almost screams, his seed spilling out onto both their stomachs. Every one of his muscles is tightening and relaxing all at once, ears ringing as his second orgasm of the night rocks his body. Chris is grinding his pelvis flush against his ass, ensuring that he’s buried in as deep as possible before pumping him full, claiming him irreversibly as Tom’s spasming body wrings him dry.

When it’s over, it’s as though nothing has changed because of this, and it’s true. People are still walking by, laughing and talking and dancing to the music that is vibrating in Tom’s sternum. Chris pulls out and this time, Tom gets up quickly, ignoring the pain he that comes from sitting. There’s an thick, overly long silence that falls between them and Chris is the one to eventually break it.

“Come on.” The softness of the other man’s voice surprises him. “I’ll get us a cab--“

“No,” Tom cuts him off. He forces a smile out of habit in a subconscious effort to diffuse the tension, and hates himself for it. “I can make my own way.”

The expression on the other blond’s face is unreadable, and it almost looks like he’s thinking about saying something. But he doesn’t, and it feels like a lifetime before he finally gives a short nod, his sharp blue eyes lingering on Tom one more time before he turns around and leaves. The Brit remains still for several moments, shuddering a little at the dirty feeling of Chris’s come leaking out of his sore ass. With shaky hands, he puts his clothes back on and pulls out his mobile, the glow from its home-screen lighting up his weary face. It’s nearly three a.m. There are a few texts from Scarlett asking where he’d disappeared to. Tucking the device back into his jean pocket, he stares at the floor and idly fingers the zipper on his jacket. The security camera positioned in the corner of the ceiling captures these moments too. It watches as he sits up straighter and exhales slowly and measuredly, refusing to let himself break down. Finally, he stands up to leave, prepared to act like nothing is wrong, and he reminds himself that things could be so much worse. At least they hadn’t been caught.


End file.
